


Fragile

by annabagnell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Birth, M/M, Mpreg, premature baby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-07
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-22 18:11:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabagnell/pseuds/annabagnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For that's what it was, housed in the rounded clear plastic bassinet - life. A brand-new one, one started several weeks too early and too roughly for John and Sherlock's liking, but a life nonetheless, a new human surviving and hopefully thriving as thin lips and underdeveloped lungs drew breath, microscopic blood cells sweeping through veins and capillaries and making her nearly transparent skin flush pink and blue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bulecelup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulecelup/gifts), [consultinghomosexual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/consultinghomosexual/gifts).



> A roleplay with hotbisexualarmydoctor brought this story to life. 
> 
> A little bit of angst for you all this time, but I promise it resolves. You'll like it. Money-back guarantee.

It was almost all John could do to clean up the dishes after breakfast; he had insisted even when Sherlock offered, which was quite uncharacteristic. Of course, he had been much more helpful in the previous months, leading up to John's eighth month of pregnancy.

 

Two days ago, the doctor informed John and Sherlock that their baby girl was doing just fine, and was growing on schedule. She still had a ways to go, not due for another 29 days, but her check of good health was relieving.

 

John wasn't made of glass; he could do the dishes, and then return to his sedentary state. His nesting instincts had him itching to get the plates and mugs perfectly clean, anyway.

 

Midway through thoroughly scrubbing a ceramic plate, John's face contorted, hit suddenly with a bout of nausea. He pressed a free hand to his stomach and shook his head, trying to shake the feeling, before returning to his cleaning.

 

After nearly two hours of telly programmes that Sherlock agreed to sit through without commentary, John winced in his chair and slid a hand around to his lower back. _Braxton Hicks_ , his mind supplied, exhaling a few deep breaths. John waved off his anxious mate when he noticed his momentary pain.

 

Another episode of Top Gear had him dozing off partway through, and when the next episode started, John excused himself and padded heavily to the bedroom for a nap.

 

He didn't know how much later it was, but he woke up feeling twice as ill and sore. He sat up, and swallowed, both hands finding his belly and caressing it softly. That's when he realised why he had woken up. John groaned and clutched at his back again, a low whine escaping his lips. An unbearable pressure filled his pelvis and it hurt to sit. "Fuck," he grumbled, and he pushed himself out of bed. This didn't help the boulder sitting in his lower body, and he waddled with a hiss toward the toilet. God, he needed to piss.

 

John suddenly stopped, feeling a lurch inside of himself, and then a rupture, and halted, steadying himself in the doorway as the wetness trickled down his pant legs. Oh God, no... _Please, God, tell me I'm dreaming_.

 

He gave a cry of surprise when his body _contracted_ again, and he cupped the bottom of his belly and leaned on the wall, his legs shaking and giving him entirely too much trouble staying upright. "Sh- _Sherlock!"_

 

Sherlock was half-asleep on the couch when he heard John's troubled cry. Rubbing his eyes, he looked around, but couldn't see John - he must've been in the hallway to the bedroom, from the direction of the cry. He rose and walked that way. "Is everything alright? John?"

 

Sherlock rounded the corner and saw John leaning heavily against the doorframe, trousers soaking and hands cupping his stomach anxiously. "John!" He rushed over, put one hand on John's back, and crouched down, looking into the doctor's eyes. "What's…oh god, are those your waters?"

 

John nodded, looking down at his heaving stomach as he took intense breaths in attempt to calm himself. "Yes. Yes, I…waters broke, I'm in labour, Sherlock," John confirmed, as stoically as possible. He looked startled, but panicking wouldn't help anything. Once the initial pain ended, John stood up straight and inhaled a shaky breath, straightening his shoulders. "Hospital. Hospital, call the doctor, and…need a bag."

 

"John, it's too early. Oh, god, it's too early, she's not done yet…" Sherlock lifted his steepled hands to his lips, taking shallow breaths. "And hospital? Hospital isn't in your birth plan. We're having a home birth, remember, John? A home birth. Not a hospital birth." Sherlock was panicking, he knew he was panicking, but he couldn't bring himself to stop. He looked at John, desperate.

 

John's brow furrowed and he gave Sherlock a quick glare. "Yes, I _know_ it's too early. Sherlock, listen, something could be wrong, we need to go to the hospital and... make sure she's okay. Calm down and…forget the bag. Hospital. Now."

 

Sherlock swallowed audibly, nodded, and tore his mobile from his pocket, dialling a cab service and demanding the next available cab to be sent to 221B as quickly as possible. "My mate is in early labour, we need to get to the hospital," he said into the phone, casting a glance at John, who looked halfway between pissed at Sherlock and in terrible pain. "I'm sorry, John. What can I do to help, until the cab arrives?" he asked, slightly calmer but extraordinarily nervous all the same.

 

John huffed out a few breaths and stared down at the floor, both hands caressing his belly frantically. He closed his eyes a moment, trying to collect himself, when his stomach contracted. John clapped his hands on Sherlock's shoulders and clamped down, hunching over to help relieve the pressure. "Just let me lean on you," he grunted through his teeth. "And get...me some new pants and trousers. Not sitting in the cab with these on."

 

"Of course, of course," Sherlock murmured, shuffling closer and rubbing John's lower back. He waited until John's grip on his shoulders loosened, and then eased his hands off, dashing to the bedroom to find a pair of sweat trousers and a pair of clean pants. Arriving back where John was standing, he efficiently pulled John's trousers and pants down and carefully off, making sure not to accidentally off-balance his mate as he did so. A quick wipe with a damp cloth to clean the sticky fluid, then another with a dry cloth, and the fresh clothes went on easily. "Cab should be here soon," Sherlock said, guiding John to sit on the sofa.

 

John groaned as he was seated on the couch and rubbed soothing circles into his - now that he noticed it - lower stomach. "Good," he breathed, looking up at his mate. "Sherlock, we need to stay calm, all right?" John said sincerely, more as a statement. "It's...all gonna be fine. Promise."

 

Sherlock nodded, a wan smile spreading across his face. "Okay."

 

* * *

 

 

The cab arrived just several minutes after Sherlock eased John off of the couch, and so regretfully the detective led his labouring husband down the stairs, out of 221B Baker Street, and into the waiting vehicle. The ride to the hospital was short, and Sherlock spent it with John resting against his shoulder. His mate endured another contraction en route, and Sherlock rocked him gently back and forth as he rode out the pain.

 

Upon their arrival, John was dropped heavily into a wheelchair, pushed into a small room and told to change into a hospital gown. After another contraction and a change out of his slightly sweaty clothes, John was laid down on the bed and waiting anxiously for a doctor to come and make sure things were fine with their baby. A nurse entered and velcroed a heart monitor around his belly, and flipped on the machine. _Elevated,_ John observed. _Only a bit, but high._

 

A short ultrasound revealed that their daughter was in the proper position for birth, and there were no abnormalities with the baby, placenta, or otherwise. This didn't ease John very much, still unnerved by the fact the baby was coming _so early_. 

 

Another contraction rippled through his middle, and he turned and grasped Sherlock's hand and took long, whooshing breaths. "See? Fine. Just fine," he murmured, though uncertain himself.

 

 "Fine, but early," Sherlock said softly in reply, allowing John to squeeze his fingers and gripping back slightly. He observed John through each contraction, each examination, keeping a close eye on his mate to ascertain he was getting the proper care. When finally they had a few moments to themselves in the room, free of nurses and doctors with only the beeping fetal monitor to keep them company, Sherlock allowed himself to ask questions. 

 

"I know this may not be the best time, John, and if you don't want to answer you don't have to. But I would like to know…what do the contractions feel like, do you feel any different between, can you feel the baby moving down…" all sorts of questions he fired at John, and ended with "And most importantly, are you okay?"

 

John lolled his head back and gripped Sherlock's hand firmly, despite not currently contracting. "This isn't a fucking _experiment_ , Sherlock, I'm about to bloody give birth!" He huffed and draped an arm over his eyes; Sherlock probably didn't mean to imply that. John knew his mate was just curious, and it helped to have all of the information possible. He decided to humour him, sighing and looking up at the ceiling. "Uterine contractions. Dunno how else to explain it. Like my pelvic region is imploding around a solid mass. Yes, it... She's moving down, a little, I feel more pressure when she gets further down." John exhaled deeply and laced his hands on top of his stomach. "I'll be honest, I've seen better. I'm... worried."

 

"Oh, John." Sherlock's eyes were alight with new information to process, and with concern for his mate. He leaned over, laid his head on John's chest, and wrapped an arm over the doctor's abdomen, listening to his steady heartbeat. "I'm sorry. I'm worried, too. But…" Sherlock paused, thinking, processing. "We're safe here. The doctors are saying she's fine, just eager to meet us. She's full-term. It _will_ all be okay." This time, it was Sherlock trying to do the reassuring, letting his mate know that he was cared for and safe. The detective straightened after awhile, looking at his slightly disheveled husband. "Tell me what I can do to help, if anything."

 

John shook his head and sighed, placing his hand on Sherlock's cheek. "Just sit there and behave," John said with a slight grin. The contraction monitor waves gradually increased girth, and his breathing grew heavier, before each spasm peaked. John dropped his chin to his chest and held his breath, his face turning red. "Have... Go get a fucking doctor, I... I've got to know how - Christ - how dilated I am." He hissed and arched his back, his toes curling as he felt the worst pressure yet.

 

Sherlock blanched, nodded, and damn near dove out of his chair, stumbling slightly on his way out of the room. He flagged down the nearest capable-looking physician's assistant he could find (late thirties, 13 years of experience in the delivery ward, confident, recently engaged) and dragged her into the room to check on John. 

 

She looked at Sherlock's mate apologetically before snapping on latex gloves and sliding her hand into his entrance, checking the dilation of his cervix. "About five centimetres, Mr Watson. Halfway there. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

 

John groaned and stared up at the ceiling in frustration. "No, thank you, you can leave," he grumbled, closing his eyes. "Actually, ice chips would be lovely, thanks." He rolled onto his side with a grunt and stroked a hand over his middle. He waited for the physician to leave and sighed heavily. He glanced back over to Sherlock and reached out for his hand again. "This is going to be a long day, isn't it?"

 

"Hopefully not terribly so," Sherlock said, putting a placating hand over John's outstretched palm. "She's small yet, so she should be easier to deliver. Right?" John glared at him, and Sherlock shut up, waiting patiently for the P.A. to return with the cup of ice chips. When she did, Sherlock fed them to John one at a time, fighting the urge to crawl into bed with his mate and press his long, warm frame up against the doctor's back. "Alright, John?" he asked quietly, setting the cup aside when the doctor shook his head at the offer of another chip.

 

John shook his head and rubbed intently at his belly just above the fetal monitor, shoving the cup of ice chips away. "Feel sick," he wheezed out. He moaned and closed his eyes, before contracting again, which he found was not very comfortable at all in this position. "Oh God." John's protuberance visibly stiffened. Suddenly his head was pounding, and he groaned, losing his patience. "Turn the-- Turn the goddamn light down, my head's gonna fucking explode."

 

Sherlock hastened to pull the cord for the overhead light, instantly dimming the room, and then jumped up to flip another lightswitch off, effectively darkening the room as much as possible without making it impossible to see. "John, is this normal, or should I call a doctor again?" He put a hand on John's ankle, rubbing his thumb slowly.

 

"This. Is fucking. Normal," John bit out, gripping at the papery sheet beneath him. He gasped softly when the contraction ended and he caught up with his breath. He turned onto his back again and closed his eyes rubbing his belly tenderly. "Please, love, please don't make this any harder than it needs to be. Come out smoothly, please, don't give us any trouble. You need to be all right. Please."

 

"John, I doubt-" Sherlock stopped, weighing the options. Rationally, John knew the baby had no way to know whether she was making the birth more difficult, but even _more_ rationally, Sherlock knew that reminding John of this wouldn't help at all. "I mean, if it's normal. Which it apparently is. Is there anything you would like me to do that would help improve the situation? A backrub, or…a cuddle?" he asked tentatively, recalling several bad bouts of practise contractions that left John shivering and griping on the couch until Sherlock held him. 

 

John glanced at Sherlock, his eyes already tired, and nodded. He shifted onto his side so his back facing Sherlock, and made a slight groan of pain. "Backrub, please. Hurts. She's... right on my spine." He exhaled and closed his eyes. "Not a good place to be, darling," John said under his breath, draping an arm around his middle.

 

Sherlock made an apologetic noise as he shuffled onto the bed, folding his legs underneath himself and leaning forward until he could press against John's back, his fingers working in gentle circles to increase blood flow and warmth to the area before he started to work at the tense muscles. As he worked his way up and down John's back, he gradually shifted until he was lying down behind him, several inches' distance between their bodies but in the same position. Almost spooning, if he were closer. It was easier for Sherlock to massage John's back from this angle, and he started to work deeper into the muscles as he felt John's body relax.

 

John hissed at the contact, then moaned when he felt his muscles being kneaded. "That's good, thank you," he muttered, his voice relieved. He was relaxed by his back being rubbed in tandem with Sherlock's close proximity, his Alpha hormones filling his body with dopamine and relaxin. John was afraid he might even doze off for a minute, before a new contraction rippled through his body. "Christ, Sherlock." He reached back and snatched Sherlock's hand, gripping it tight as he grunted and gasped through the spasm.

 

"It's okay, John. I've got you, you're safe." He leaned forward, settling his forehead into the curve of John's neck and moving his arm so their joined hands rested over John's tightening middle. "Breathe through it, it will pass." Sherlock felt a little more confident now; some part of his Alpha nature was telling him he knew what he was doing and could help his mate. He moved their hands slowly across John's belly, soothing the infant within and letting Sherlock's Alpha pheromones settle into John's skin. "That's our daughter, moving down. Ssh, good job. You're doing so well." 

 

John huffed when the contraction released, and he took long, shaky breaths. "S'getting close, Sherlock," he mumbled, relenting his seize on his mate's hand, but not wanting him to move it from his belly. John closed his eyes and focused in on listening to the whoosh of the fetal monitor, willing it with his whole body and soul that her heart rate would go down just a little, to where it needed to be. "Don't want to be in stirrups," John announced, "want to be on my knees. When the time comes. Don't let them put me in stirrups, it's... I want at least this part of our birth plan to be the same. No stirrups."

 

"No stirrups," Sherlock repeated, scooting the rest of his body closer to John's. He'd done nearly all the massaging he could; hopefully the heat of his body would keep John as relaxed as he could be under the circumstances. He let his hand drift back and forth across John's stomach, fingers rubbing small circles wherever he paused. "How are you, now? Is she any lower, do you think you'll be fully dilated soon?"

 

John nodded lightly. "Yeah, she's lower, I... Here," John directed his mate's hand, pressing his fingers lightly into the skin right above his groin. "Head's there. Just above the cervix." He sighed and closed his eyes, licking his lips. "I just want it to be done. I want to... get up and walk, like in our plan, but..." He gestured to the monitor on his belly. "I can't while I'm attached to this. It's... It's difficult, but it's for our girl's safety. That's what matters, right now."

 

"I can go call a doctor in, see if they'll let you get up and walk? Just for a little while?" Sherlock rubbed the place where their daughter's head rested, thinking. "You're stable, at the moment, they might let you move around for a few minutes."

 

John considered for a moment, hesitating. He stared at the white wall in front of him and heaved a sigh. "Yes, please. I need to walk, she's not coming any faster with me lying down."

 

"I'll be right back, then." Sherlock kissed John's shoulder, gave a pat to his belly, and rolled over and up off the bed. The Beta nurse manning the station was more than happy to call John's attending physician, and Sherlock explained the situation as he led the doctor back to their room. "He's in premature labour, and our daughter's heart rate is slightly elevated, but it was in John's birth plan to move during labour and he would very much like to get up and walk around. Is that possible?" he asked, opening the door.

 

The doctor took a moment to look over John's chart and evaluate the Omega's overall condition, as well as the child's. She also snapped on a pair of gloves to check John's dilation. "You're seven centimetres. I don't see a reason why walking would be a problem, it would only speed you up and get her out here more quickly." The doctor removed the fetal monitor and turned off the machine it was attached to. "I'd like to hook you up to an IV, though, just a saline solution. Make sure you don't become dehydrated. You can walk with the stand." She was quick to insert the needle into John's right hand, and taped it, having a nurse bring in the bag to connect it to. "Press the button if you need anything else. You don't have to leave the room to get our attention, Mr. Holmes," she said with a light smile, before turning to John again. "If not, I'll be back in thirty minutes to check your dilation."

 

John was relieved when she left, and reached out for Sherlock's hand. "Come on, help me up."

 

"Of course." Sherlock took John's hand and gently pulled him up to stand, putting his other hand on John's back to steady. "Slowly. Your centre of gravity has more than likely shifted quite a lot since you last walked around."

 

John gave a curt nod, and grunted as he was brought up to a stand. This wasn't as comfortable as he had originally thought. A lot of pressure had shifted downward, but it did transfer the weight from his spine. He huffed a breath and gripped his IV stand, wheeling it as he took a hesitant step. He found a rhythm, leaning heavily against Sherlock, and stared down at the cold marble floor. "She's only going to be about five pounds, if that," John said, devoid of emotion.

 

"Babies much smaller than that have survived and thrived, John. You're full-term, remember. There could be complications, but there's no medical reason she can't pull through." Sherlock furrowed his brow at John's emotionless tone. "John, this _isn't_ your fault. The doctor told us she's fully developed, there's no abnormal levels of hormones or pheromones, and you've been taking it easy. It's not anything you've done to make her premature."

 

"No, Sherlock, she's not fully developed. She's close, but she's _not_. Babies have their biggest growth spurt two weeks before they're born. Besides, a baby isn't considered full term until 37 weeks, I am 36 weeks, Sherlock, she isn't _done_ , she isn't _ready_ ," John protested, his voice filled with anger, and even fear. He wasn't ready, either. He wasn't ready for this little girl to enter their lives. "Her lungs aren't developed enough. Those are the last things to fully form. Sherlock, what if she can't breathe? She's not ready, she's not-- Ghhh!" John hunched over and clutched his belly as he contracted again, instinctively spreading his legs.

 

"John, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry but you need to calm down. Her heart rate is already up, remember, and you're going to…you might make it worse if you don't calm down. Ssh, just breathe, I know it hurts." Sherlock rubbed John's back, trying to calculate his next move and finding that rationality wasn't working as well as he thought it might. "If her lungs aren't working, they'll make them work. She'll be fine, John, you have to _believe_ -" Sherlock cut off with a gasp. 'Believing' was a term that did not appear in the Holmes vocabulary, it either _was_ or it _wasn't_ , there was no proof that 'believing' in something would change the outcome. Yet here it was, here _he_ was standing in the hallway of a hospital, watching his mate go through premature labour and trying to reason with fate to make it so that their daughter would be born unharmed, small but complete and all parts functioning. Belief. _Belief._

 

"You have to…hope," Sherlock said in desperation, "that everything will work out. It's all we can do, John, is hope. But don't blame yourself, please. Don't blame yourself."

 

John hissed and latched on to the assistance bar on the wall, shaking his head. He rocked his hips a little, trying to relieve the pressure, his eyes shut tight. "You're... a man... of science," John huffed out, taking long, desperate breaths as the contraction dissipated. "Not supposed to… _believe_ ," he said, not sure if he was teasing or making an observation. He grabbed onto Sherlock's arm to steady himself before walking again, finding it more difficult now that the baby had moved down. Now that he was upright, she seemed to be progressing much more. "You're right, though. You're right, we've just... got to hope for the best. She is our daughter, after all. She'll... she'll come out kicking and screaming." John gave a faint, unsure smile and continued down the hall.

 

"Kicking and screaming and irate at the lack of a silver spoon in her mouth," Sherlock added, returning his mate's worried smile.

 

Sherlock walked alongside John, stopping every few minutes to rub his back or hold his hips during a contraction. After what had to be the longest and hardest one John had yet endured, Sherlock bit his lip and thought for a moment before speaking. "Might be good to head back to the bed, John, don't you think? She seems to be making quite a lot of progress in a short period of time."

 

John was quick to agree, already starting that way when the contraction had barely ended. He could feel the baby's head grinding against his cervix, and he had to stop for a moment, walking only inducing more pain as it felt like she was being forced down with each step. John's legs shook as he gripped the assistance bar with both hands, his bum pushing out instinctively. He contracted yet again after entering this position, and gave a harsh, startled cry, his body shaking. "Fuck, Sherlock, Sherlock, need to push, she's there, got to push..." He chanted desperately, eyes wide and locked at the taupe wallpaper in front of him.

 

"No, no, no, not yet, you're in the _hallway_ , John, you can't give birth in the hallway," Sherlock protested, looking around wildly for help. "She's probably not as far down as you think, just…wait until this contraction passes and we'll get you back to the room."

 

John fought every muscle, every instinct not to just drop into a squat and push right there, and he simply panted harshly, close to hyperventilating, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. He grasped at the bottom of his belly roughly, as if he were attempting to push her back up. "Bed, need t'get..." John didn't finish, only kept working on carefully padding back into his room, each step more painful and difficult than the last.

 

_John was in pain. John was in pain, and walking was difficult. Solution: Pick John up. Limitations: IV drip. Solution: Tie off._

 

Sherlock did just that, removing the drip against John's weak protests, tying it into a knot, and lifting John into a bridal carry, the position he deduced would cause the least amount of additional pain and get John back into his bed in the most expedient way possible. 

 

John was shaking in his arms, and Sherlock murmured to him quietly as he rushed his labouring mate back to their room. He settled the man back onto the thin mattress and pushed the call button hurriedly, on the off chance that a doctor hadn't seen him carrying John back into the room. When a doctor did indeed arrive, Sherlock demanded they check John's dilation, glancing down at his near-tears mate and reaching down to grasp his hand and hold on tight.

 

John squeezed Sherlock's hand in his, while his other grasped his mate's arm and did the same. He moaned and spread his legs wide without protest, and let the doctor check him, and hoped to god she would let him push. He nearly cried when she said he was not yet at 10 centimetres, and he pulled Sherlock in so he could bury his face in his chest. God, it hurt. It shouldn't hurt this badly, should it? John wasn't sure if he screamed or not, but he certainly wanted to. He was losing all sense of mind, and just needed his baby out. Out so they would know she was okay, and to free him from this agony. 

 

His thighs trembled as he contracted again, and he practically sobbed into Sherlock's shirt. "God, God, just cut her out, I don't _care_ anymore," John murmured through his pain, knowing very well that wasn't entirely true. Part of him was worried that his straining and pushing her out would only hurt her.

 

"Ssh, don't say that, John. You do care. We both care. It hurts, I know. And we're both worried. But you _do_ care." Sherlock loosed his arm from John's grip and wrapped it around John, crawling sideways onto the bed so that he could cradle his labouring Omega. 

 

"I'm scared," he admitted, whispering the words into John's thin hospital gown. "I'm scared, and you are too. And…that's okay. We're allowed to be scared. We're going to be parents." Sherlock was babbling aimlessly now, hoping that something he said would make John feel better, or distract him from the pain. "You're going to be a dad. We're going to have a daughter. Just hang in there, John. You're doing well. Very well."

 

John only tried to bat Sherlock away when he wrapped around him. He didn't want to be touched. He was in pain, and upset, and he didn't want Sherlock touching him. After a minute, he stopped fighting and ran a hand over his face, trying to calm down, and gave a dry sob, the other hand curling to rest around his sore stomach. "I don't want to hurt her," John explained urgently. "Sherlock, I'm... I shouldn't... It's my fault, I shouldn't be having babies, I'm too _old_ , Sherlock, this is _my fault_ ," he rambled quickly, looking away. John took a shuddering breath and licked his chapped lips. "My fault she's early." He swallowed and furrowed his brow, his eyes set on the mediocre landscape painting in front of the hospital bed. "Need to push through it. I'm stronger than this."

 

"Please, god, John, don't blame yourself. This was not and is not your fault." He bit his lip again, was silent for a moment, and then spoke again. "I can be strong for the both of us right now. If you need to be vulnerable, you can be. It's okay. I promise, it will all be okay. The doctors are here, they're making sure everything is going to be fine." Sherlock didn't know what to do next, saw that his words weren't reassuring John the way he intended them to. "John, it's my job to provide for you. But I'm…at a loss. I don't know how to help. If I could take away the pain, hold off labour for another four weeks, make it so there was no risk to our daughter, I would. But I can't, so we have to work with what we have. And you have me, and I have you, and soon we'll have our little girl. And that's all we can do for now."

 

John felt like a right prat for having a pity party about something he couldn't control. He sighed heavily and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his wrist, and looked to Sherlock. "Look at you," he said quietly, a small grin breaking his pained face. "You shouldn't be nervous about being a parent. That right there, everything you just said... That's what being a dad is about. Just doing everything you can for your kid, and sometimes not knowing what to do, but being there anyway. That's…that's the best we can do." John closed his eyes tight, a contraction interrupting his moment, and he lurched forward, curling his toes and gripping Sherlock's hand and his own hospital gown. John held his breath a few moments before panting through it, lasting a solid thirty seconds, before he collapsed, and he gazed back up to Sherlock tiredly. "There's... only so much you can do, Sherlock. But being there and loving me... and our baby... is the best possible thing you can do."

 

"Then I will do my best, John, to do just that." 

 

* * *

 

 

It took John a while to get used to the feeling of pushing. It only created more pressure, and his mind was screaming for him to stop, but his body knew better. He didn't want to push too hard, was part of the issue. Their baby girl was so small, and would surely be fragile, he didn't want to risk squeezing on her too hard. The soft pushes elicited loud contained strains of John's throat, and helpless gasps of air after the contraction was over.

 

His request of not being placed in stirrups was denied. This was not going the way John wanted.

 

John wished he could have been relieved when he felt the baby crowning, but the stretch was unbelievable, and squeezing around his daughter's poor tiny head only made him feel more anxious, and pushed more urgently. He hardly noticed Sherlock squeezing his hand, stroking his hair, and chanting words of encouragement.

 

He gave a startled shout when the head burst completely free of him, and he finally felt relief. He was almost done, and their daughter would be here. John gave Sherlock a brief smile, then winced as he felt a foreign finger slip into his already wide entrance.

 

"The cord is around her neck, it's wrapped around twice, I can't untangle it until she's further out. John, you need to push, immediately."

 

John's head snapped down to the doctor. If he had any colour to his skin prior, it was definitely gone now. He couldn't dwell on the situation long enough, and gave one long, hard, meaningful push as the shoulders were brought out in one go, and she slid from him.

 

John wasn't relieved, eyes intently on the doctor, and waiting to see the space between his legs filled with a healthy, pink, wailing baby.

 

That did not happen.

 

His eyes were met with a sickly, blue looking infant that hung limply in the doctor's hands. She wasn't breathing, and neither was John.

 

He couldn't even speak. He shook his head disbelievingly as the baby's cord was cut and was taken by another doctor, and out of the room.

 

"What's happening, where are you taking her, why isn't she breathing, why isn't my baby breathing--" John was cut off with his own hyperventilating sobs, hand clasped over his mouth, watching the door as it closed.

 

"The baby is being taken to NICU, they're going to attempt to resuscitate her there--"

 

"Resuscitate?" John practically screamed. "No, no, no, no... No. No, bring her back, _bring her back now_ , she _needs_ me!" John didn't care, he was going to get out of this bed and find her. He struggled to get out of the stirrups, but was held down. No. No, this couldn't be happening.

 

Sherlock blanched when he saw his baby girl, blue and limp, being rushed away, and barely managed to keep from racing after her. He stayed by his husband's side, near tears, listening to his enraged, terrified cries. "John, John. She'll be…she'll be okay, they're going to make her better. Do you want me here, with you, or there, with her? John!" Sherlock hated to snap, but he needed to get John's attention. "Do you want me here, or with her?"

 

John didn't know, he didn't know what he wanted. All he wanted was a healthy baby in his arms, he wanted Sherlock kissing his forehead and telling him what a good job he'd done, what a beautiful baby girl they'd made. He wanted to welcome his little girl into the world and tell her all about what an amazing person her other father was. And he wouldn't have that now.

 

John shook his head and closed his eyes tight, too _damaged_ to speak. Sherlock was going to have to decide for himself.

 

When John couldn't decide, Sherlock looked down at the agonized expression on his mate's face. His decision was made. "The doctors will take care of her. You need me." Sherlock squeezed John's hand, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to John's sweaty, wrinkled forehead. "I saw her. On the way out. She was lovely, John. She'll be fine. She'll be fine, I promise, she'll be okay."

 

John didn't want to believe that tiny, sick, _dead_ baby was his. He didn't want to think that after eight happy months, looking forward to their daughter's arrival, a pretty pink nursery that Sherlock hated, a baby shower with friends just as excited as they were, this had happened. This had happened.

 

John took long wheezing breaths, leaning in to Sherlock's touch, and shook his head. He wasn't buying a word of what Sherlock was saying. She wasn't lovely. She was small and sick, and there was nothing they could do. Nothing John could do would make it better. And he cried.

 

"I'm so sorry, John. I'm so, so sorry." Sherlock wanted to believe that it would be okay, but there was that _belief_ again, begging fate to change. He hoped, almost against hope, that a doctor would burst back in with the news that their baby was alive, pink and squalling, but he just wasn't sure anymore. He held John close, cradled his head, and let his mate cry. A tear dripped from his own eye, landed on John's hospital gown, and soaked into the fabric, moisture spreading out from its epicenter. 

 

The door opened. Sherlock looked up, took in the nurse's disheveled appearance and nervous expression, and prepared for the worst. 

 

"She's alive."

 

John didn't look at the nurse, but heard the words from her mouth. He almost didn't believe what he heard, but continued to cry, this time in shameful gratitude. She was alive. Their daughter was alive, that was all he cared about. John held Sherlock tighter and buried his face into his neck, before turning back to the nurse. "What's... what are her vitals? Apgar score? Tell me."

 

 "Her vitals are improving, Mr Watson, heart rate is slightly elevated and breathing is touch and go. Her lungs are undeveloped, which is to be expected as a preemie. Apgar of 4 and rising. She's going into an incubator, but you can see her as soon as you're cleaned up." 

 

Sherlock nearly went limp with relief. Their daughter was alive, doing poorly but improving, and they could see her. "John," he managed, and then tears rolled down his cheeks.

 

John exhaled and took an easy breath for the first time in what felt like ages. He rested his head onto Sherlock's shoulder, taking a moment to be tired, a moment to be completely vulnerable, and gave the most grateful, most ecstatic sob known to man. "Thank you," he said quietly, not sure if it was to the nurse, Sherlock, or whatever higher power was listening. Their daughter would be all right, he knew. She was a a Holmes, a Watson-Holmes. And she would be great.

 

John made sure that he could see his daughter as soon as possible. The doctor had recommended he needed rest, after what had happened, time to gather strength, physically and emotionally. John would have none of it, he could sleep later. Right now his baby girl was most important.

 

So he was brought a wheelchair, not an hour after giving birth, and was wheeled by Sherlock as a nurse lead them to the NICU. This was a place John had always avoided in the hospital; he never wanted to look at ill babies. Now he had to accept that his own was in this room.

 

The door opened and he found a row of incubators against the parallel walls. He looked around at all the babies, most of which were surrounded by anxious parents, and immediately turned his attention to those without. The nurse gestured to the proper station, and John felt his heart stop. There she was. Lying on her back, adhesive heart monitors on her chest, tubes going in to her mouth and nose, and a hat covering her head and a nappy to keep her dry. Such a tiny thing she was.

 

He couldn't see her face well around the tubes keeping her alive and well, but he was completely enraptured alone by the rise and fall of the baby's chest, and the pink tinge to her skin. This was a completely different baby than he'd seen in the delivery room.

 

"Oh, Sherlock..." John whispered with a watery smile, pressing his hands against the warm plastic.

 

Sherlock nodded, swiping at his eyes as he leant over his mate. "See? I told you she was lovely." 

 

They weren't allowed to hold her, not yet, so Sherlock settled for pulling up a wheelchair next to John's and scooting as close as he could to the plastic incubator. He watched, enraptured, as the monitors beeped, constantly updating her heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen levels, and body temperature. She was so tiny, utterly minuscule, and hardly moved save for the shallow breaths she took every few seconds. But she was alive, and her condition was stabilizing, and she was theirs. 

 

"We have to think of a name," Sherlock said softly, taking John's hand in his own and squeezing.

 

John watched the little girl's breathing, an endearing look in his eyes, and then nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, she needs a good name," he agreed. "Thought we'd have a bit longer to think about it, but." He trailed off and took a deep breath. 

 

He started to examine what he could of their daughter, trying to determine what she got from whom, and struggling to remember what colour her hair was. Maybe it was blonde, like his, but he couldn't be sure.

 

"She's got your nose, thank God," John said with a smile, though that was all he could discern of her features.

 

John was then hit with an idea. He vaguely remembered when he was little, going to Bible school on Sundays, and how many important people there were to remember. John was one of the twelve apostles, and whether he was named for him, he didn't know, but one name came to mind.

 

"Christine. It means 'messiah'. We've saved her as much as she has saved us, you know. I never thought I'd have a baby, until we mated. Until she was just a little spec in my uterus making me vomit at three a.m. for two months. She is definitely a little gift, a blessing." He turned to Sherlock and squeezed his hand. "Christine Violet." John said confidently. "Violet, after your mum."

 

"Christine Violet," Sherlock murmured, tasting the words as they rolled off his lips. "It's…perfect isn't the right word, nor is 'ideal', but it's wonderful. Absolutely fitting, I can't think of a better name for our daughter. Well reasoned, John," Sherlock praised, and lifted his mate's hand to kiss it. "Christine Violet it is." 

 

They sat and watched little Christine in the incubator for long, long hours, squeezing each other's hands reassuringly and watching as her tiny fists and fingers furled and unfurled. Each breath seemed to make her stronger, each beat of her infinitesimally small heart pumped oxygen to the furthest reaches of her small body, encouraging cells to grow and reproduce and sustain life. 

 

For that's what it was, housed in the rounded clear plastic bassinet - life. A brand-new one, one started several weeks too early and too roughly for John and Sherlock's liking, but a life nonetheless, a new human surviving and hopefully thriving as thin lips and underdeveloped lungs drew breath, microscopic blood cells sweeping through veins and capillaries and making her nearly transparent skin flush pink and blue. DNA, part of Sherlock's and part of John's brought together in a routine but miraculous act of life, copied and split and rebound with acid pairs to develop new cells, all with identical chromosomes, that would make their daughter's body grow stronger and bigger. 

 

All these things, and more, happening in that artificially-ventilated, chemically-sterilised, systematically climate-controlled plastic case they sat beside.

 

* * *

 

Two weeks. 

 

Two weeks, Christine spent in the incubator, closed in her tiny plastic home and only allowed to be touched lightly through latex gloves. John and Sherlock had each watched as nurses carefully changed and fed their baby; the only contact they'd had with the premature infant was brief moments when they could stroke a fingertip down her cheek, touch her little fingers, or brush back the hair which was starting to grow on her head. 

 

Two weeks after John delivered 'Teeny', as he'd taken to calling her - the day she would've been considered 'full term', if she'd stayed in that long, they were allowed to hold her for the first time.

 

Sherlock was scared stiff, and deferred to John to do the honors. A practised nurse carefully picked up the infant, off the IV drip and monitoring pads for the first time since she was born, and set her down in John's waiting arms. Sherlock held his breath as she was transferred, watched as John ever so delicately held her to his chest, cradled her in his arms. Watched as she opened her eyes the tiniest bit and squeaked in protest, wiggled her little fist. "Oh," Sherlock inhaled, and dropped to his knees beside John. 

 

John felt his chest tighten when his daughter was placed into his welcoming, anxious arms. "Oh," he breathed not a moment after Sherlock, unable to take his eyes off the beautiful baby in his hold. Finally. Finally. After all this time, Christine was all his. She wasn't hooked up to any machines, and she was pink and healthy. John gave a watery grin and lifted a hand to stroke her cheek with his fingertips. "Hello, darling. My teeny girl. Oh, here you are, right where you belong."

 

John was completely enamoured and overwhelmed. After all this time, helplessly standing by to watch Christine struggle in her plastic world, without the comfort and warmth of her parents, he could have her.

 

Christine sniffled, her voice so soft and small, like she was. The loudest John had ever heard her was a short cry when she'd gone too long without being changed. He didn't think they'd have trouble with her crying too loudly in the future; but maybe a higher frequency on the baby monitors.

 

Holding her felt so natural and right. John slipped a finger into Teeny's fist, giving a laughing sob when she squeezed in return. "That's right. That's my strong girl," he cooed, looking up to Sherlock, his eyes moist and smile brightest it had ever been.

 

"We could ask for an empty room, to lie together and bond. I know I need it," Sherlock murmured. "I'd bet you need it too." Sherlock let his hand drift out to touch her head, gloveless for the first time. "God, John, she's lovely."

 

John gave a firm nod, still completely captivated with the tiny girl in his arms, and looked to a nurse anxiously. "Excuse me, could we have a room? We would like to bond with our daughter." 

 

The nurse looked hesitant but then conceded, gesturing to the room right outside the NICU. She lead them in and before closing the door, said softly, "Ten minutes, then she needs to go back into the incubator."

 

That was enough. John sat down on the bed and cradled Christine close, bringing her up to his shoulder and kissing the side of her head. "Oh God, Sherlock... She's so wonderful. Look at her. Look..." He pushed back her little cap to get a look at her hair and grinned. "Look at that. You've got a pretty head of hair, you do," John cooed, stroking her back as she snuffled a small squeak.

 

Sherlock was instantly enamoured, and sat gently on the bed beside John, crowding in close and breathing in her scent. It was fresh, untainted by chemicals or the environment, and it was nearly as intoxicating as John's individual scent. Sherlock's heart throbbed and he gave John a tentative smile, inching closer until her shoulder was touching his chest. "She's beautiful, John. You made a beautiful daughter."

 

John gave a small giggle and started rocking her, ever so lightly, half afraid he might break her. "I did, didn't I?" He laughed light-heartedly before gazing up at Sherlock. "I can't take all the credit. You helped, too, you know." John grinned and suddenly found his lips pressed against his mate's and he pulled back, immediately focusing in on Christine's smacking lips, and he sighed. Of course, it was too late to get her into breast feeding, but it was petty to worry about that. "She's hungry. Can you go ask that nurse if she can make a bottle?"

 

"It's terribly selfish," Sherlock murmured, "but…could I hold her, and you go ask? I was terrified I'd…break her, but…I need to hold her, please." He looked down at John, a sort of desperate want clouding his eyes.

 

John blinked as he met Sherlock's eyes, and he looked into them for a while. He felt foolish for not asking if Sherlock wanted to hold his own daughter, too enveloped in her himself. He gave a crooked grin and nodded, giving the little girl a kiss on her head before gently beginning to transfer her. "Okay, to your Daddy, now, and Papa will see about getting you fed." John smiled as he helped adjust Sherlock's arms to accommodate such a small baby, and took a moment to relish in the sight, Sherlock's slightly startled and awed expression. "I'll be back, then," he said, lightly touching Sherlock's arm and walking out the door, already wishing he was back with his family.

 

Sherlock was able to hold himself together until John gently closed the door, and instantly thereafter he sobbed out a quiet 'oh my god' and held his daughter close. "Oh, my…hello, my Christine," he breathed, a tear dripping unbidden down his nose and falling onto her blanket. "Hello, I'm your Daddy, and you're…so, so impossibly small." He readjusted her, pulling her higher up his chest, and she made a small noise - of contentment? He'd have to start cataloguing - and smacked her lips. "Oh, hello, hello," he murmured. "I've been so scared for you, Christine, but I see now that I was being unreasonable. You're perfect. So, so perfect." He buried his face in her blankets and breathed in her clean smell, squeezing his eyes tightly shut.

 

John entered the room slowly and quietly, a grin forming on his lips. God, it wasn't fair how perfect and breathtaking the scene in front of him was. John's eyes were warm as he approached Sherlock and tilted his head up gingerly to give him a content, meaningful grin. "You... You're going to be brilliant. Sherlock, you've no idea." His lip trembled but a moment before sitting beside Sherlock, a hand gently rubbing his back. "She really is perfect, Sherlock. And you're allowed to be afraid. I know you were just as scared as I was when she was born. And you were there for the both of us, and you were amazing, but... you can let it out, love. Be relieved. Be happy." John kissed Sherlock's cheek, before breathing in his ear, "We're a family now."

 

Sherlock looked up, eyes rimmed scarlet, and nodded. His mind had come to a halt, the only thought an intense, overlapped rerun of 'Christine John Christine John' repeating at a near screech. He choked out 'a family, John,' before his system gave way and he nearly collapsed, oceans and galaxies of tears and emotions pouring out in a series of horrifying sobs. He had been so afraid for so long, terrified that he might lose John if they lost the baby, and then even when she was alive she was so small, so fragile that she might not make it, and she was _thriving_ now and it was such a relief -

 

John caught him, held Sherlock tight and close the way Sherlock held Christine, and Sherlock felt for the first time in weeks entirely safe and whole. They _were_ whole now. A family. 

 

Sherlock's family.


End file.
